musical as the pianissimo of her own vocalization, and for some ten or fifteen minutes we conversed together. But every one else in the room seemed to have forgotten her presence, and yet, you may be sure, the hostess considered herself as a "patron" of the new artiste who naturally would have to be grateful for the "social influence" thus exerted.

A young composer told me a little experience of his own the other day. He was invited to the house of a Mrs. Van Boodle, to her "at home", to play. "You will meet a good many influential people,” wrote Mrs. Van B. He went, poor fellow, having sacrificed two or three dinners to buy his gloves, new patent leather boots and irreproachable tie, and was called upon to open the musical programme. He did so cheerily and hopefully, and received his poor round of applause. He then sat down, was introduced to nobody, was never asked to play again, and had the mortification to see a mere teacher of the piano, who played detestably (but who was the private instructor of Mrs. Van Boodle herself) asked to perform in the very middle of the proceedings, when because there were more people in the room, there was naturally more applause. This is an ordinary example of "social influence". Does Mrs. Van Boodle think, I wonder, that she has assisted that young composer by asking him to perform at the very worst time of her "at home". as far as appreciation was

concerned-introducing him to no one, placing an inferior pianist above him, and finally paying him nothing? No, Mrs. Van B., that artist has no reason whatever to be grateful to you; he simply regrets the money he spent on the new gloves and boots he bought for the occasion, and well he may, for your "influence" will never gain him the worth of them!

One more instance, though I could quote scores, and I have done. A gifted professional reciter, equal to any actress on the stage for the splendid force and fire of her delivery, was asked recently to give two recitations at the house of the Countess of Fuddlebury. She accepted with joy. She ordered an elegant dress for the occasion, and determining not to disgrace her distinguished "patrons", she hired a brougham to take her to the countess's house and back, saying to herself hopefully, "They will certainly give me ten guineas, they are so enormously rich, and I can surely afford ten-and-six for a brougham out of that." So she went in proper style, gave her recitations, and was applauded as much as the Fuddlebury "set" ever does applaudand then-what happened? The Earl of Fuddlebury gave her a half-guinea bouquet! Alone in her brougham, returning home from her poor little triumph, she feverishly searched among the flowers for the bank note which she thought might have been delicately placed there by her noble host and hostess. Alas, she quite

overrated the good intentions of the Fuddlebury folka bouquet presented by an earl is a sufficient reward for anybody surely! But how about the brougham? And the dress? And the bills coming in for both? Ah, poor thing, she shed many tears over her disappointment that night!

And who shall count the heart-aches, difficulties and sorrows that beset all artists in their upward climbing? sorrows that are more often increased than lightened by the selfishness and avarice of their so-called “patrons". There is no Mæcenas nowadays to rescue the unknown Horace or Virgil who may be toiling away, on the brink of starvation, in his lonely garret. There is no great-hearted Lorenzo de Medici to foster the very earliest promises of art in the artist and encourage his budding efforts with generous praise and substantial reward. Our Prince of Wales is not particularly interested in literature and art; his efforts are principally directed to the launching of "professional beauties" on the stage where they cannot act, and where they are permitted to remain notwithstanding their incapability, to the wonder, impatience, but gradual toleration of the too good-natured British public. Plenty of money is spent in useless luxuries; there are women willing to pay fifty pounds for one dress, who would grudge five guineas to Rubinstein if he condescended to play for them privately; there are lords and dukes who will give

a thousand pounds for a horse, and yet will screw down the foreign painter who decorates their receptionrooms in superb fresco, to the uttermost farthing of meanest remuneration. But there is yet another view to be taken of the "patrons" of art as they exist in this country. Should any of the unfortunate gifted ones who have been induced to soil the wings of her genius in the miry pit-falls known as "at homes", happen to succeed at last and become famous, what a cackling chorus arises from the Fitz-foodles and Boodles and Ponsonby Tomkins folk!

"I patronized her!" cries one. "I introduced him!" says another.

"I used my best influence for him," remarks my lord with an air of wealthy satisfaction.

"Without us, she could never have succeeded!" adds my lady with a determined nod of triumphant self-elation. And so on. Without doubt, if great folks did exert properly the influence they have by reason of their wealth and station, they could do much for all who are in the various artistic professions, but here a new difficulty presents itself. Some of the richest people in the metropolis are those who have made their money in trade, parvenus who are as ignorant as they are rich and who are unable to distinguish between the artist and the charlatan. To be a worthy patron of art requires not only wealth, but intellectual culture,

refinement, delicacy, discrimination and a great love of the beautiful. All these attributes are very rarely found in the English or American millionaire, British meanness especially, in matters of art, being proverbial. John Bull likes to stand aloof with his hands in his wellfilled pockets, eyeing struggling genius with a sort of languid curiosity, and saying with praiseworthy philosophy, "Help yourselves and all your friends will love you." Naturally! for in success friends are not needed. We are always so ready to love those who don't want anything from us. I know an extremely wealthy woman, conspicuous for the large diamond rings she wears on her podgy fingers and the innumerable gold and jewelled bangles wherewith she adorns her stout arms, who was recently asked to lend a very small sum of money to one who had been her playmate in early youth, a sum which would have served as a stepping stone for him to fame and fortune. The lady professed the most sentimental tenderness for her "dear, dear old friend", but hesitated about the loan.

"How dreadful it would be if he could not pay it back," she said with a sigh. "It will be much better not to lend it." The value of one of her costly rings or glittering bracelets might have made her old friend's career, yet she contemplated the "dreadful" possibility of his not being able to pay back her loan; she never dreamed of making him a free gift of the sum he